Just stop it Stop this
by Erikajayne1
Summary: It is the day of Sherlock's funeral. How does John cope, what goes through his head.


**AUTHORS NOTE: **I do not own anything, that all belongs to the fantastic original creators in all formats. I just enjoy writing about characters that I love, in situations that I can't help but want to see them in. So please R&R – Much love

The sun was cool, when Doctor John Watson shut the door on 221B Baker Street.

As he stood on the pavement he knew that today was going to be hardest day that he had ever had in his life. Harder than saying good bye to his family when he was first posted away to a war zone or seeing real warfare for the first time. Doctor John Watson knew that it was going to be worse than the day he lost his first patient.

John was pulled from his thoughts by a hand slipping into his grasp, it squeezed his clammy hand tightly. He knew without looking that the hand belonged to Molly, dear dependable Molly. She raised a delicate hand to her eye and silently wiped away a tear.

His eyes were fixed on a large black car, which started it's engine. From Molly's lips escaped a sorrowful gasp.

"Molly." John paused, as he was aware that his voice did not sound as it usually did. "We have to be strong. We just need to get through . . ." He squeezes her hand.

"Yes." Molly nods her head.

A young tall thin man, walked towards John and with a sad and quiet voice said.

"We are ready if you are?"

"Yes, please lets move off." John's voice was quiet.

The young man signalled to the driver and slowly the car started to pull away. John and Molly silently fell into step behind car. As did many other people.

John could not stop his thought's from wandering, it wasn't the first time in his life his thoughts had wandered and he had the overwhelming feeling of being alone.

His mind wandered back to the first day he returned to England. It was a cold rainy day and he was in a lot of pain, his leg was aching and he still had a rather large bullet hole in his shoulder. He was sitting in the bare room within the army rehabilitation centre. He wanted to cry, but no tears came. John knew his life as an army doctor was over. He couldn't return to the field even if he was declared as fit. His mind wouldn't let him, he was still reliving the incident – as the army professionals were calling it.

John would call it the death of seven good men, in a war that should have finished years ago. In the silence of the room, he could still hear their voice's screaming for him to save them, to stop the pain. Every time he closed his eyes, he could see their faces, most covered in blood with panic in their eyes.

A cough drew John back to the present moment, pressing his eyes shut tightly he tried to force the memories from his mind. When he opened his eyes they fixed on the car in front of him. The breath quickly left his lungs and he gain it back again. John felt the sting of tears in his eyes, suddenly he had the overwhelming feeling that he couldn't do it. He stopped dead and released Molly's hand.

"John, are you OK?" Molly's voice was kind.

"Of course I am not O.K. This!" He points at the black car, which inside carried a pine coffin. "This should not be happening. He should not be dead!"

"John" Molly said with a sob. "He is dead, and sometimes it doesn't feel right and sometimes life doesn't go the way you want it too but Sherlock. . ."

"Do not even finish that sentence." John balled his hands up into tight fists. He felt so angry. . . at everything and every one.

"John." There was a serious tone to Molly's voice. "Sherlock is dead."

John's mind instantly flashed back to the first day he met Sherlock. It was in the morgue, at St Bart's. He walked into the morgue lab and instantly felt at home, there was something about smell in a lab that you couldn't get anywhere else.

Huddled over a microscope was a man, John estimated his age to be thirty-ish, he had a mass of curly dark hair and his eyes were firmly on what ever was beneath the lens.

"Mike." He spoke but didn't look up. His voice was clipped and more posh than John had expected. "Can I borrow your phone? No signal on mine." He held out his hand, it was thin and his hand was delicate.

"What's wrong with the land line?" John's rather rotund friend questioned with a frown.

"I prefer to text." He shrugged, his white shirt was crisp and opened at the neck. John could not help but feel that there was something interesting about this young man who looked like he could do with a substantial meal.

The rest of the conversation seemed like a blur of words that didn't seem to form anything coherent. The man who was still nameless, stood up and wrapped a blue scarf around his neck and pulled on a thick long blue coat. Stood at the door and with a single breath said.

"I know you're an Army doctor, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help, because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? The name is Sherlock Holmes, and the address is 221B Baker Street."

He then winked and left the room. John turned to Molly and said.

"Is he always like that?" She shrugged and smiled, which John took to mean as a yes.

John took a breath and ran his clammy hand over his unshaven face and looked into the young face of Molly Hooper. Her brown eyes were sad, so terribly sad.

"He can't be dead, he's my friend." John chocked back a sob. Stepping towards him was a tall thin man, an umbrella in his thin hand he said.

"John you need to be strong, you can't let your emotions take the best of you." His voice was clipped and emotionless.

"Mycroft, are you serious, we are burying your brother, your younger brother and you talk of being emotionless. I find it hard to believe that you have a soul." John snapped and turned towards the car.

The rest of the journey was silent and for the first time in a long even his mind was silent. The service went as any other before it or after it. They followed the vicar to the grave site and watched as they lowered the coffin into the ground.

Every moment of every second during the funeral, John wanted to scream out and demand that it was changed, that it wouldn't happen. It wasn't right, it just wasn't right.

As he stood at Sherlock's grave side, he could not help but look at the people who had turned out. Opposite him on the other side of the grave was Mycroft, looking as emotionless as ever. John could not understand how he could bury his younger brother and not have an emotions.

John clenched and unclenched his fists as his gaze moved to Mrs Hudson, who was wiping away several tears, discreetly with a small white handkerchief. Beside him he heard a familiar sigh of Molly. John had been staying at Molly's flat as he could not bring himself to go back to Baker Street. It was too painful.

As the black coffin was being covered with earth all he could think about was the last conversation he had with Sherlock.

John was standing on the street opposite St Barts hospital. His phone rang in his pocket, frowning he answered.

"I'm a fake." Sherlock sounded like he was crying. John was confused,

"Sherlock..." John paused.

"The newspapers were right all along." Sherlock's voice was quiet, uncertain even. "I want you to tell Lestrade, I want you to tell Mrs. Hudson and Molly; in fact, tell anyone who will listen to you... that I invented Moriarty for my own purposes."

John could not believe what he was saying. Sherlock could not be doubting his own genius, John knew that Sherlock was everything and more than John could have ever imagined him to be.

"Okay, shut up, Sherlock. Shut up. The first time we met - the first time we met, you knew all about my sister, right?" John felt that he was trying to convince Sherlock and himself. There was no way in hell that Sherlock wasn't anything but frustratingly genius.

"Nobody could be that clever." There was a laugh in Sherlock's voice.

"You could." Johns voice was soft.

That was when Sherlock jumped. He jumped off the roof of St Barts hospital. It seemed that he wasn't pushed or cohered. He jumped.

The papers next day filled their head lines with 'Suicide of fake genius'. John didn't believe them and he would never believe them. Sherlock Holmes was and is the most amazing man he had ever met.

"John" Mrs Hudson's voice was low. "I will give you a few moments then you can come back to Baker Street for a cup of tea."

"Thank you Mrs Hudson."

John sighed and stared at the large black headstone, engraved with gold letters spelling SHERLOCK HOLMES.

John stands there and talks, he just says whatever is on his mind. Whether it was right to do so or not, he shouted. Shouted in the hope that Sherlock could hear him and face him. He refused to believe that Sherlock was anything less than he was.

Just before he left John stepped closer to the grave stone and placed his hand upon it, it was cold against his clammy skin.

"But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be...dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop _this..._" His voice broke off as he felt the swell of a sob.

Turning from the gravestone he walked towards the church and hoped that Sherlock wasn't dead.

THE END


End file.
